


amarante

by aestheticisms (R_Vienna)



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Fate, everyone dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 09:32:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13385016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Vienna/pseuds/aestheticisms
Summary: A gifted genius summons a devil most divine.Fate/Stay Night AU, Tharja/Cordelia.





	amarante

amarante   
(it seems unfair) to be cadaver for a curse  
(it seems unfair) to be an overflow for empty

tharja/cordelia fate AU 

a gifted genius summons a devil most divine. 

* * *

 

“She was…”

“She was what? Pray tell.” 

“Sumia was my best friend.”

A painful silence follows, and the ancient woman clears her throat. Her shadow sneers behind a dark hand, ringed with gold and lined with red diamonds. Violet eyes meet pale blue, and Cordelia swallows back a warding spell. It would be easy to dispatch this spirit, all she had to do was murmur an incantation. 

“That’s it? For a request...of this caliber, that kind of superficiality doesn’t seem like the proper foundation. Friendship is fleeting, transient like the tides.” 

She poses an argument, and unforeseen roadblock. Cordelia assumed she would grant her request regardless of her conviction. What did have a spectre have to gain from something that could very well free her from her binds? For a Servant to be so forward--frustrating. Elegant hands fold over the table, and the woman bites down on her lip. Her history should serve a hard lesson. 

“You fell out of grace for a woman with a black heart. You hardly seem qualified to make that sort of critique.” 

Tharja wilts, and shuffles her deck again. Bone white cards line up on the table, adjust themselves underneath moonlight, they position themselves into a five pointed star. The flickering candlelight makes for poor ambiance, but for once, Cordelia is grateful for the darkness. The witch’s disposition is colder now, she bruises so easily despite her barb wired tongue. Curtains rustle, sheer black and violet, and the candlelight flickers. Tharja’s sleeves billow in the new presence, antiquated gold of centuries gone-by flicker back to life, yearning for something more than their corpse of a creator. 

“I want to see her again. I have something I need to say.” 

There’s nothing else to say, really. This will seal her fate. Tharja knows the cards will not be happy to hear her request. Someone so desperate to reach the expanse beyond life and death, someone so filled with regret and guilt, will never be able to reach it. She takes a deep breath, living darkness, witchcraft incarnate, yes, this is her role to play. The lace veil is a heavy burden. She’s killed her heart again and again to play this role, if her Master asks of her, she must comply. Her contract binds her to the dirt, and to the promise of a life beyond, an existence where she can one day discard this--it is pathetic to make wishes on something like this. 

She carved her own fate out of bone and flesh. Her summoner was the same way. 

“I will cut the strings that tie you.”

Cordelia reaches over and presses her fingertips against the first card. 

“Chariot?” 

Tharja hums, and her Master’s face wrinkles in a way she didn’t think was possible. It’s amusing, really, seeing all sorts of emotions dance across her perfect features. Cordelia prides herself on emotionless retribution, on elegance and grace, she prides herself on her poker face. The ability to detach oneself was essential in her house, and for a woman of her station to be able to manipulate every microscopic instance of feeling--oh, how grand, how wonderful. It makes Tharja’s black heart sing, seeing such awful distress. _The_ _Chariot_ , does Cordelia understand herself, does she see the journey ahead of her. She’s been a sorcerer for many dimwitted boys, many silver tongued girls, stretched across the span of time, but there was something about her current liege that makes her laugh. 

“Oh, this is no good at all.” 

It makes her laugh because there’s no one more suited for her flights of fancy. Tharja is a creature of extremes, she’s burned cities down for the sake of sport, for the sake of love, she lived and died by her own hand.  _ It’s not good at all _ , it’s a test of sorts. How will her Master react, how will her nails bite into the tablecloth, left hand emblazoned with her mark, Caster’s mark. The witch urges her to keep flipping cards, yes, what is after you, please tell us, share with us your fate--

“I’ll hear your excuses after.” 

There’s nothing better than the manner in which Cordelia turns her cards over. It’s absolutely fascinating, her nails clip edges and her fingers smooth out ridges, it is perfect. She reads the ancient script, her eyes scan the portraits with little interest; maybe, Tharja thinks, she’ll bore a hole through the table and into the next world, where the girl she wants to meet is. A girl, she is, young and sweet, with glowing eyes, a previous pawn in their cosmic game. She was a Master, before, but never again human. Cordelia must think her cruel, must think her daft. Tharja knows of every entity, every piece of magic is filtered through her veins. Sumia was a victim of the holy grail, too indecisive, too stupid--

“Please, do not disgrace her memory like that. She was stronger, more steadfast than I could ever hope to be.” 

Cordelia’s tone is murderous, and Tharja sighs behind her veil.  _ The Chariot, Temperance, Tower-- _

There is no point in continuing. 

“Is that so. I saw a coward, where you saw a god.” The witch hums, as if she’s reciting a litany. “There were people more suited for prayer and for strength. She was not one of them.” 

“You didn’t know her. You’re a pawn--” 

The chair skids against the tile, it makes an awful noise, Cordelia stands over the table with her hands balled into fists. Every strand of hair is a trail of fire, and Tharja does her best to move her cards. She still has a reading to do, and if her Master was to be an absolute embarrassment, then, so be it. Her eyes burn gold and the witch only waves her hand in response to the outburst.

“If she had more potential, she would’ve died at your hands. I would be happier, in your shoes. Rider’s Master did not die a pointless death.” Acidity drips from every syllable, and her Master composes herself. Her Master sits down, patting back her skirt. Cordelia’s stare is venomous, but Tharja knows she cannot refute her claim. 

“Keep turning the cards. Maybe the answer you seek will reveal itself. You wanted this opportunity.” The shadow offers a cruel sneer. “See it through.” 

“What atrocities will my Master commit for love,” Tharja muses as Cordelia bites down on her lip.

* * *

 

Cordelia sees it through. She widens the gap between herself and her assailant, her lance cuts the air in a smooth arc. It disappears with a flick of her wrist, and she summons another weapon from a pearl-finish armory. This time, a sword. She’s a perfectionist, she’s the daughter of an esteemed magus family, and this magyk was her birthright. Archer’s Master hisses when Cordelia neatly sidesteps her Servant’s blows. In her sharp dress suit and torn pantyhose, it was as if she was preparing for cotillion rather than a fight to the death. 

“Archer, cut her off!” 

“Caster.” 

A magic circle impedes any sort of last minute escape. The elegant tile floor turns sickly, purple vats overlay it in an intricate design. Archer’s attempt to give her Master more room to breathe is dashed, Tharja’s incantation swallows her horse, venom deteriorates muscle and sinew. Cordelia keeps her opponent on her toes, and the woman snaps, before summoning her own weapon. 

“An axe?” 

It’s not just an axe, and this woman isn’t a run off the mill magus. Archer’s Master is a woman of grace and beauty. Even now, swinging a golden weapon from the wars of old, she keeps her poise. Her steps are careful, measured, as if she was holding back. That frustrates Cordelia the most, she wants to press her lancehead against her adversary’s long pink hair. She adorns herself with relics from wyverns and other beasts related to the dragonborn, and for once, the genius unsurpassed in all things, fears for her life. 

Tharja keeps herself busy, summoning monsters and demons in Cordelia’s peripheral vision. Archer parries her blows with arrows made out of light, but when their battle gets too close, too intense for the comforts provided with two long ranged fighters, she effortlessly shifts her bow into a sword. Tharja makes some sort of noise of upset, and casts a barrier, while she takes the time necessary to prepare a counterattack. Archer does not let her stay away for long, she slashes at the obstacle, her blue tunic and dark green hair fly back violently. Her golden blade glints menacingly, and the witch is forced to pull back. There’s a rush for the dining hall, Tharja flies past decorated tables and overturned chairs, before she’s standing in front of a set of floor to ceiling windows, truly reminding her of the precarious nature of their situation--her Master’s situation. Several thousand feet in the sky, this humble castle provides only the best sights. 

The fourth battle for the Holy Grail was a stage set of decadence and opulence. After her boast, and the revelation of her holy magic, there was nothing that should keep Cordelia from finishing this duel--nothing, except for the lady of the house. 

“Miss Cordelia, I understand your concern with how this battle is progressing, but I would appreciate it if you stopped making a mess in the foyer.” She twirls the hilt of her axe before swinging it, and Cordelia raises her arms over her head, summoning a shield made out of rapiers. The axe’s impact pushes her back, Cordelia digs her heels in, and braces for the worst. The foyer? If that was of her concern, she should’ve started the fight outside in the state of the art garden. 

“Cherche, is there any way we can avoid this ending?” 

The battle between their Servants escalates to a roar. Whatever was left of the Roseanne manor shatters. The windows burst. 

“Caster?!” 

Cherche stops her onslaught to examine the state of her Servant’s affairs. Archer stands with a desperation, she shakes off rubble and glass, but the explosion has put a significant strain on her. 

“I don’t know how much longer I can fight. Master, I suggest we retreat.” Archer grimaces, and Cherche pinches the bridge of her nose, before patting down her pencil skirt and rolling the sleeves of her ruffled blouse. Cordelia does not let go of her lance, but she can’t hear or see her perpetual shadow. Something is wrong.  

“You know I would fight until the ends of the earth for you, but--” Cherche silences her with an expression so cordial that makes Cordelia’s blood run cold. 

“Then fight you will. I have an obligation to this accursed house. Kill the witch.” 

Something breaks.

“For the plains.” 

Cherche clutches her chest, her command spell the color of blood, it drips all over her perfect hand. Cordelia slams her foot down, and breaks her heel. After she has secured a means to escape, she runs, all while screaming for the witch who led her here.

“I really thought you would be happier. Revenge is of our essence, you know.” 

Sure, it was Archer’s Master that laid Sumia to rest, but after the seance from hell that lead to their current predicament, maybe, it was better to live than to die--

“Where have you  _ been? _ ” 

Tharja offers her a dark hand, and Cordelia takes it. The witch’s veils shield them from Archer’s frenzy, but not for long. She was being released from the binds that tied her to the earth. 

“That’s her noble phantasm, Master.” 

“Thank you, I couldn’t have possibly guessed.” 

Cordelia holds onto to the witch, her nails dig into the small of her back, she clutches velveteen and ancient lace like prayer beads. Tharja wraps her arms around her waist, and pulls her even closer, she buries her face into the crook of Cordelia’s neck. 

“Are you ready? For my own parlor trick?” 

“I’ve trusted you this far.” 

The witch ghosts her lips across her neck--she bites down.

* * *

 

“A blade forged to end tyranny, Sol Katti--” 

“--the devil’s own lexicon, Goetia.”

* * *

 

Cordelia never considered defeat. That wasn’t an option, not when there were so many people riding on her victory. Phila. Sumia. Even Cherche, who stared at her with glassy eyes, overtaken by her own cursed magic. Hauteclere, one of the cruelest pieces in the sacred armory. A fate worse than death, to be devoured by your own ambition.

Yet, she faces the same end. 

She thinks back on her tarot reading, so many nights ago. Two moons waxed and waned since the witch entered her life. Her hair pools around her, pieces and chunks litter the dirty concrete. Her arms and legs are covered in tattered rags, her pride as a magus desecrated. There is nothing left of Cordelia, Caster’s Master, the daughter of victory.

Her shadow sits next to her, bony fingers wrapped around her bloody wrist. 

“Keep your mana, you should have time, to make a new contract.”

“It’s only us, and Saber’s Master. This is the end for me, too.” 

There must be something more to say than that. Cordelia can’t move, sprawled out, her limbs bent at awkward angles. Tharja mutters spell after spell after incantation, and all she can do is watch the wounds close and the blood dry. A Servant’s duty, or a witch’s twisted brand of loyalty? Cordelia cannot tell which motivates her existence, and she never will. Her body was made out of dark magic, of human desire and greed, of selfish and of selfless devotion. Every word that she spoke, meant to convey something so much more. 

“Then, I have a final command.” 

“So be it. I live and die by your hand.”

Tharja finishes her rite. Cordelia closes her eyes.

"Kiss me." 

("After Tower, comes the Devil--") 

**Author's Note:**

> originally written for mikky's femslash zine.   
> i have a lot of feelings about this particular au, but for the most part, i wish i could write a 10K word fic on cherche and lyn kissing in virion's abandoned manor after she kills him for his command spells
> 
>  
> 
> but alas. 
> 
> \-- angie @oceanblogging


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